


Grow Miracles

by yopumpkinhead



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5079826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yopumpkinhead/pseuds/yopumpkinhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's had a rough few weeks, between Charlie and Dean and Death and Rowena. But Dean's got more important things to worry about, and besides, who would give a single damn about the ex-blood junkie who's destroyed the world again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Miracle Man

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 11.01, between when Sam and Dean leave the abandoned restaurant and arrive at the outskirts of Superior, Nebraska.

Dean pulls over at the first truck stop they see because, as he tells Sam with the twist of his mouth that might mean he’s teasing and might mean he’s dead serious, “you need a shower even more than Baby.” 

Sam doesn’t argue. He takes the spare toiletries-slash-first-aid kit from the back seat and heads inside, while Dean pulls the Impala around to the wash station to get the mud off. Sam pays the overpriced fee for a small, scratchy white towel and a key to one of the little shower stalls, strips, and ducks under the water. It’s surprisingly hot, and the water pressure is strong, and for a few minutes he just stands there under the spray. 

He wants to feel relieved. The Mark is gone and Dean is back. Mostly; Sam can’t shake the uneasy feeling that there’s  _still_  something Dean’s not telling him. But he can deal with that later ( _can always deal with that later_ ). Right now they need to triage, figure out what the Darkness is doing with its – her? – newfound freedom.

Lucifer’s voice in his head, a memory:  _No rest for the wicked, Sammy._

The hot water stings the cuts on his face where Dean’s fists broke the skin, but Sam scrubs anyway, scrubs until no more red runs down his body to spiral into the drain. Then he kills the water, dries off, and drags his clothes back on. They’re still sweaty and dusty and bloody, but maybe, hopefully, Sam being clean under their grime will satisfy Dean. 

The ventilation in the bathroom is terrible, so of course the mirrors are smudged with fingerprints and permanently fogged over. He swipes the towel across one, but only succeeds in smearing the water droplets. He could probably still manage to shave - you spend enough of your mornings shaving, you stop needing to see every little detail - but he can’t see the cut on his cheekbone well enough to decide whether it needs stitching. Dean had cleaned up the worst of the blood back at the abandoned restaurant with spit and paper napkins from Death’s last meal, but even in the fogged mirror Sam can tell it looks pretty bad. 

“Who the hell happened to you?” a voice says behind him, and Sam turns around to see a short, sturdy man eyeing him skeptically. His dark skin and silvering hair are still damp from the showers, and he’s wearing ratty jeans and holding a clean undershirt in one hand.

“It’s not–” Sam tries to say, but the guy shakes his head. 

“I drove an ambulance for a while, before I drove a semi,” he says. “I know what it looks like when someone’s been on the wrong end of a beating. Here.” He motions toward the short metal bench along the wall; Sam reluctantly lets himself be chivvied to a seat. The man takes the toiletry kit from Sam’s hands and sets it aside, puts a work-thickened knuckle under Sam’s chin and tilts his head so he can get a better look. 

“Well, you’ll live,” the man says dryly. He picks up the kit again, searches through it for gauze and antibacterial cream. His hands are warm and sure against Sam’s cheek as he cleans the wounds. When he’s done he reaches for the kit again, then pauses. “I can put a bandage on it, but it’ll be awkward with how close it is to your eye.” 

Sam shakes his head. “It’s fine. Uh, thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it,” the man says. He seems to debate with himself for a moment, then says carefully, “Gangs?” 

“No,” Sam says, then hesitates. It’s unfair to blame Dean, when it was Sam who provoked him, when it was the Mark that egged him on. But the man is watching him with gentle, knowing dark eyes and Sam is tired of hiding things. “My brother.” 

The man’s chin lifts, ever so slightly; something flickers through those dark eyes too fast for Sam to catch. He nods once, then again more firmly. “It’s not my place to get between family,” he says quietly. “But, kid, you ever need anything, a friendly ear, a ride… give me a call, okay?” 

He presses a small white card into Sam’s hand, pats him on the shoulder, and heads off to the lockers. It’s not until he’s disappeared around the corner that Sam realizes he never even asked for the man’s name. He looks at the card, but it just says “Miracle Freight, Inc”, and a phone number. 

Miracles, indeed. 

Sam tucks the card into a pocket and heads back outside. Dean’s standing beside the Impala, inspecting his handiwork; the car is gleaming black and sleek as the day it rolled off the factory floor. Dean barely glances at Sam, says only, “About time. Let’s hit the road - that big ugly dust storm has to have touched down somewhere.” 

The word  _no_  is on Sam’s tongue before he realizes it; he just barely manages to stop himself from saying it out loud. This isn’t going to work, and he knows it even if Dean doesn’t - they can’t just keep doing this over and over again, hurting each other and sacrificing the world for each other and thinking everything will somehow turn out all right in the end. But this isn’t the time for that discussion ( _it’s never the time for that discussion_ ), so Sam circles the Impala and climbs into the passenger seat. 

The miracle card sits in his pocket, a quiet reminder that maybe everything is awful right now, the world’s about to end, God doesn’t care and the angels want him dead, but there’s at least one person in the world who could still find it in himself to be kind to Sam Winchester. 


	2. When God Is Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during 11.02.

Bite Me has died, choking on viscous black blood and spasming against his chains. His name was Eddie Thompson; Sam found his wallet after he’d finally stopped moving. Another name to remember, to add to the list of people Sam had failed. 

Dean is heading back to Jenna’s grandmother’s house. The baby he’d been so determined to save isn’t a baby at all, it’s something unknown and terrifying and much more important to deal with. Besides, if Dean came back to Superior, he’d either wind up infected and dead just like Sam, or he’d have to watch Sam die. Sam won’t let either of those things happen. 

But loneliness and fear are twin knives in his gut and he fingers his phone, wishing he had the nerve ( _was enough of a coward_ ) to call Dean back anyway. 

He swallows them down, shoves his phone back into his pocket. His fingers brush something unexpected and he pulls it out, because he needs something to distract him from the memories of chains slicing through his flesh, from how the world is going blurry at the edges. It’s a plain white card with the words “Miracle Freight, Inc” and a phone number, and he remembers suddenly the truck stop, the dark-skinned man with the gentle hands and kind eyes. It wasn’t even two days ago but it feels like forever, and almost before he realizes it Sam’s dialed the number. 

Even as he hears the ring on the other end he knows it’s stupid, he’ll get a secretary or something and he doesn’t even know the man’s name, won’t be able to say anything that won’t make him sound like an idiot, a freak–

The phone clicks and the man’s voice comes over the line, deep and rich: “Miracle Freight.” 

Sam has to take a second to breathe, fear and relief in equal parts choking him. The man says, “Hello?” and Sam swallows hard and answers. 

“Hi, uh, this is– you probably don’t remember me, we met at a truck stop–”

“Hey,” the man says, his voice warming. “Of course I remember you. Too tall and with a banged-up face.” Sam can’t help but smile a little at that. The man adds, “I don’t give my card to someone I’m planning to forget. So what’s going on? Are you all right?” 

There’s genuine concern in his voice, and Sam’s throat tightens. It’s a few seconds before he manages, “I, uh…” and then before he can stop himself he blurts, “no, I’m not all right. You hear about that–” another second while he struggles to remember the cover story going around the radio news– “twister that hit Superior, Nebraska yesterday?”

“I heard something, yeah,” the man says. “You got caught in that?”

“My brother and I were helping with the, uh, cleanup and rescue,” Sam says. “But the twister brought some kind of… of plague or something. People are getting sick. Dying. A lot of people. And…” He swallows hard. “And I’m sick, too. I’m dying.” 

“Hell, son,” the man says. “I’m down in Tennessee, but I know a guy on a run not far from you. He can have you picked up and at a hospital in a few hours–”

“No!” Sam says, a little too sharp, and the man falls silent. “No,” Sam repeats, softer. “It’s too dangerous. I don’t want him to get sick, too. And… I’m fine, anyway, I mean, I’m looking for a cure.”

“If you were fine you wouldn’t have called me,” the man says, not accusing, just understanding. “Your brother’s with you?” 

“No,” Sam says, and feels again the ache of loneliness. “He took a couple survivors someplace safe.” 

“Listen, kid,” the man says, and once again his voice is so gentle that it hurts. “Anything you need from me, you let me know, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Sam whispers. They’re both silent for a moment, then without really meaning to Sam finds himself asking, “Do you believe in God?”

“No,” the man answers immediately, then, to Sam’s startled silence, adds, “You weren’t expecting me to answer that fast, huh?”

Sam smiles a little. “Most people think about it first.”

“I’ve thought about it, kid. I’ve thought about it a lot. But the thing about God is, it doesn’t matter if he, or she, or it exists. People who are gonna do good, will do good regardless of whether there’s a God to tell ‘em. Same goes for those who do bad.”

The words barely come past the lump in Sam’s throat: “What about people who need hope?” 

“If you could get hope from God,” the man says, and his voice is so gentle, “then you wouldn’t be calling me.” 

Sam nods, because even if the man can’t see him, it’s all he can manage. If he tries to talk he’ll break, and there’s infected people still out there on the streets of Superior that are relying on him not to break. The man waits, patient and silent, only the distant sounds of traffic to show he’s still on the line. 

It’s an eternity before Sam manages, “What if I can’t save them? What if I can’t find a cure and more people die because of me?” 

“It’s not your fault,” the man says, his voice firm. “You gotta remember that, kid. You can try your hardest, you can give it everything you’ve got, but no matter what you’re not gonna be able to save everyone. You’re human, and so are the people you’re trying to save. Every EMT, every doctor or nurse out there, they’ve all lost people no matter how hard they tried. It’s part of the job, and it’s a shitty part, don’t get me wrong. But if all you do is think about the ones you  _didn’t_  save, you aren’t going to have anything left for the ones you still  _can_  save.”

Sam nods again. The man continues, “You’re strong, kid. I saw it in that truck stop and I can hear it in you now. I’m not gonna tell you it doesn’t suck, because it does, and I’m not gonna tell you it’ll be okay, because I don’t know that for sure. But I can tell you that you’re not alone, and that I believe in you even if you don’t. Okay?”

Sam swallows hard, works his jaw, trying to get a word out. Finally he manages, “Yeah.” And then, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” the man says. “You call me again when you find that cure.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says again. Then he hangs up. 

He sits silent for several minutes, just staring at his phone where it sits on the table. The infection is making his ears buzz ( _Sam… hey, Sammy…_ ) and his whole body aches, but he still feels more stable than he did before. God might not care, might just want to torment him more, remind him that he belongs in the Cage. Billie the reaper might care too much, hating him for how many times he’s come ( _been brought_ ) back even though he didn’t want it almost any of them. All that means is that Sam is on his own, but he’s been on his own since that night on the bridge when Dean walked away to take the Mark. 

Maybe the miracle man is right, maybe Sam won’t be able to save everyone, but he’s sure as hell going to try. 


	3. In Heavenly Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set at the end of 11.02.

Sam doesn’t bother to turn on the light in his bedroom, just staggers across the room and collapses onto the bed. It’s almost too much effort to kick his shoes off, drag his arms free from his jacket and drop his phone on the bedside table, but he manages. The little desk lamp that he always forgets to turn off is still lit, casting just enough light around the room to remind him that he’s in the bunker, not the Cage. His whole body aches; he’s still closer to thirty than forty but right now he can feel every one of those thirty-odd ( _two hundred-odd_ ) years. 

He’s far enough away from the library that he can’t hear Castiel’s pained grunts anymore, and he feels a little guilty for being glad of it. But he’s seen enough pain and death over the last few days ( _years_ ), and he just... needs a few minutes. Besides, Dean’s with Castiel, and he can do a better job taking care of him than Sam ever could.

It’s strange to see Dean taking care of someone again; even stranger was when he’d taken Sam by the shoulders and pushed him, not ungently, toward the dormitory hall. “Get some rest,” he’d said. “You look like shit.” 

Sam had stared at him for a few seconds, tired enough that his brain couldn’t quite process this. “I’m fine,” he’d said, and made a vague gesture toward the stack of destroyed books ( _we gotta get a maid_ ). “I need to clean this up.”

Dean had paused then, sharp green eyes searching Sam’s face. He’d given Sam a little shake, one hand coming up to rest against Sam’s neck. “I got this part,” he’d said. “Looks like you got the--” a hitch in his voice, barely noticeable, but Sam knows his brother inside and out. “--worst of it already, anyway.” Another gentle shake. “I’ll take care of this. Get some sleep.” 

But now that Sam is here, he finds he  _can’t_  sleep. When he closes his eyes he sees darkness laced with lightning, feels razor-edged chains sunk deep into his flesh, hears his own screams of pain and terror. He’s pretty sure it’s God laughing at him, taunting him. God had told them, all those years ago in Heaven’s garden, to back off. Give up. Leave Him alone. But Sam was stupid enough to pray again, to draw God’s attention to him again, to dare ask for hope enough to face his own fuck-up--

A sound like a bone saw and Sam’s sitting bolt upright, his heart in his throat, before he realizes it’s his phone vibrating against the wood of the bedside table. The phone buzzes again, and a third and fourth time, before Sam’s pulse has slowed enough that he can reach across the bed and pick it up. He doesn’t recognize the number, but they get enough important calls from strange numbers that he doesn’t want to ignore it. He slides a thumb across the screen and holds the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“I thought you were gonna call me when you found that cure,” a man’s deep voice says, gentle and kind, and suddenly Sam can’t breathe.

“I, uh,” he says.

“You had a lot on your mind,” the miracle man says. “Saving a whole town full of folk’ll do that to you.”

Sam finally manages to swallow around the lump of emotion in his throat. “Yeah.” 

“Heard it on the radio,” the man says. “Folks in Superior are saying a tall guy with a bruised face and too much hair saved their lives, then vanished without telling anyone his name.”

“My name doesn’t matter,” Sam whispers. “I just wanted to save them.”

“You did, son,” the man says. “You did good.” 

Sam curls his arm around his stomach, hunches over. He can’t remember the last time anyone said that to him. 

“Your brother with you?” the man asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says.

“He gonna hit you again?” 

“No,” Sam whispers, then again, stronger: “No. He’s... he’s better now, I think.” 

“That’s good,” the man says softly. 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. He draws his knees up to his chest, wraps his free arm around them. His throat is tight and his chest hurts and he’s so tired. 

“You someplace safe?” the man asks. 

Sam nods, swallows hard and tries to talk. The room has gone blurry around him and he doesn’t dare blink. “Yeah.” 

“Then you get some sleep, kid,” the man says, very gently. “You worked a miracle in Superior. You’ve earned yourself some rest.” 

“I can’t--” Sam tries, and chokes on the words ( _on the screams, on the pain, on the terror_ ). 

“I can tell you’re tired,” the man says, “and I’m guessing you’re gonna go find another disaster to fix as soon as you can see straight again. But you gotta let this one go, kid. You saved all those people and now you need to rest. Can’t save anyone else if you’re too tired to move.”  

His eyes close despite himself and he can feel the tears sliding down his cheeks. He presses his face against his knees. He doesn’t mean to talk, but the words force their way out anyway: “I’m scared.” 

“Of what?” The miracle man’s voice is still gentle, like there’s nothing wrong with Sam admitting that, like he doesn’t think Sam’s weak ( _a monster, a failure, a freak_ ). 

“What if...” Sam has to stop; licks his lips and tries again. “What if I can’t do it? What if I can’t fix it?” 

“Then you find someone to help you,” the man says. “Your brother. Me. Whoever else you can find. People aren’t meant to take on the world alone, kid.”

Sam can’t respond for a minute, his voice sticking in his throat. The man waits him out, patient and quiet, soft traffic sounds rumbling in the background. Finally Sam manages, “You’d help me?”

“Of course I would,” the man answers. There’s no hesitation in his voice, no doubts. 

“Okay,” Sam says, because he can’t say anything else. The man’s voice is unyielding despite its gentleness; Sam doesn’t think it would be possible not to believe it. “Okay.” 

“Good” the man says. “You’ve still got my number. You need me again, you need anything at all, you give me a call, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam says again. “And... um. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, kid. Now get some rest, you hear?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I will.” 

“Good,” the man says gently. “You take care, now.”

“You too,” Sam whispers. 

“I will.” The line clicks and goes silent, the call finished. 

Sam just sits for a while, the phone still clutched in his hand, hugging his knees against his chest like he’s a kid again. Eventually he manages to straighten up a little, scrub his arm across his eyes. He’s wrung out, drained, but now when he closes his eyes there’s nothing behind them, no hellfire, no chains. He sinks down to the bed, burying his face in the pillow, his hand finding the reassuring coolness of his gun tucked beneath it. 

For the first time in over a year, Sam Winchester’s dreams are peaceful. 


End file.
